


Chill in the Air

by tribunal



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Original Character(s), Pining, Prelude to a Makeout Sesh, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24581731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribunal/pseuds/tribunal
Summary: A miqo’te, an Ishgardian, and that ever-present cold.
Relationships: Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light
Kudos: 15





	Chill in the Air

**Author's Note:**

> This was a commissioned piece for @syreniabyssi over on Twitter! I always feel so blessed when people entrust their original characters to me, it really makes me feel like I’m holding on to something precious.

Syrthril Thrugas isn’t used to things yet, not used to temperatures colder than sweltering, not used to going outside and being nearly lifted off the ground with a hearty burst of wind. Lord Fortemps outright laughed (laughed!) at the Moon Keeper, calling him “dramatic” in dignified tones, too kind for Syrthril to take proper offense. But gods above and below, he wanted to, biting the inside of his cheek, definitely, _certainly_ , not pouting.

So when the first snow of Ishgard’s confusing “winter” comes, he’s left aghast, left blinking from the relative safety of Fortemps Manor while white flurries play havoc from the other side of the window. His ears flick back and forth, tail twitching in half-realized irritation, restlessness because he just knows it’s just as cold as everything else is in this Twelve-forsaken city-state, just as frigid as its people, save the Fortemps. A rarity in more ways than one, for certain.

“Haven’t you snow where you’re from?” The warm voice, so at odds with his surroundings, comes from behind Syrthril, making the ever-twitchy Miqo’te let out an undignified yelp in response. Twelve preserve him.

It’s only Haurchefant. _Only_ Ishgard’s blessed son, ashen in hair and wry of mouth, holding out a mug of warmed cocoa as though it’s a simple thing, not a panacea to the cold that’s been slowly seeping into Syrthril’s bones since he set foot in this godsforsaken land. His lips curl as Syrthril’s shaking grip grasps the mug and Syr--only momentarily, promise--feels faint at that uptick of lip, hint of a smirk hidden in its depths.

Syrthril Thrugas is a smitten fool. But it’s impolite to call him out, so, blessedly, no one says much on it. If he’s noticed Y’shtola’s pained glances in his direction, Thancred’s crude motions behind his back, he’ll mark it up to the Scions being themselves and nothing more.

Nothing. More.

When Ishgard’s blessed son drapes a blanket over Syrthril’s shoulders, expecting a response, Syr’s mind blanks, shorts out, whizzles to nothing, as though he were one of Cid’s whirligigs. “I…” Gods, what _had he asked?_ “No...I suppose not. It’s different.” Certainly speaking of the snow outside and not the much taller Elezen in front of him, smile widening as he pulls the blanket tighter around him, and Syrthril’s just letting this happen, isn’t he? Not even bothering to _pretend_ to make a move to stop him, just staring at him as though he hung the moon.

“But different isn’t so bad, is it?” He’s leaning in, he’s leaning down and Syr knows he’s not talking about the snow outside anymore (was he ever, really?).

He is scant breaths away from touching his lips against Syrthril’s (chapped, always from the cold, he keeps biting his mouth out of habit and acting surprised when his fangs bleed him) when the Twelve-forsaken _fool, so besotted_ pipes up: “My! My cocoa will get cold!”

But Haurchefant, bless his soul, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even pause. “You never needed it. I’ll keep you warm.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Twitter @GODCOMPLEXXED for updates in these trying times!


End file.
